EMP Antediluvian Courage : Book 3

by S A Ison

  “Whoever is left, we’ll try to help. Maybe tomorrow, let’s see about getting more venison. Maybe we can pass some of that along to help them out when this is over.”

  “I was wonderin’...” Earl said hesitantly.

  “What?” Harry encouraged.

  “I’m not sure how ta ask, but here goes. I’d like ta stay on here Harry. I ain’t got nothin’ ta go back to. I like liven here, it feels like my own home,” Earl said softly, his voice heavy with emotion.

  “Earl, I thought you knew you were welcome,” Harry said.

  “Well, I ’spect it was just as long as until things quieted down,” Earl said. Both men turned as Boggy came out to the porch. He handed each of them a bowl of peach cobbler, then sat in a rocking chair.

  “Look, you’re all welcome to stay here. This is your home and you’re our family now. That means you Boggy, Clay and Katie. Marilyn and Monroe will stay here as well.”

  “That’s good, cause I ain’t wanna leave anyhow,” Boggy grinned.

  “I’m glad too, I’d miss them young’uns,” Earl said, and took a big bite of the cobbler. “And the cookin’ too.” He laughed.

  ֍

  It was nearly ten in the evening, and loud, coarse laughter meandered outside Darrel Mopes’s house. There were candles all around the living room. Boney and his men – Wilber, Ralph Edison and his twin, Abram – could clearly see through the large bay window. Seven men sat around a table, along with several lanterns gleaming bright and the lights shown through the large window.

  Boney, Wilber, Ralph and Abram stood in the yard, looking in. From their vantage point, they saw several young women sat in the several of the men’s laps. They didn’t look like they wanted to be there. Their body language said they were repulsed.

  “Looks like they’s drunk,” Ralph whispered.

  “Yeah. I think we need to go in, weapons hot. Don’t see none of their weapons near ’em,” Wilber said.

  “I’ll go in the back door. I already checked an’ it’s unlocked. I got a good line of sight. Ralph can come with me an’ Abram can go with you, Wilber. Watch your crossfire. Don’t shoot no one unless they go fir a weapon. Keep them gals in mind; I don’t want any collateral damage. We just want to kill them gomers,” Boney said.

  Another burst of laughter drew the men’s attention. Boney sighed heavily. His heart was pounding, and the adrenaline flowed through his veins. This was different; it was closed in and each man had a hand gun. Their long guns would do no good in close quarters.

  “Be aware, fellers, there might be peckerwoods in other rooms. Anyone come out of a room, and it ain’t a woman, shoot to kill. Center mass. We’ll stay out here a few more minutes. Then we separate, and good luck to you,” Boney said quietly.

  Each man checked their weapons. Boney could smell the gun oil. He smiled; they were all nervous, but once more felt young, felt needed. He wished Thornton Sherman was there, even though he’d been a Marine. He looked around at the men and nodded. Each had a glint in their eyes, their jaws firm with determination. They separated, and Boney and Ralph crept around back. It was agreed to count to thirty once they got to the doors. They had a better chance of going in at the same time.

  His hand on the doorknob, Boney counted down and then pushed the door open. Across the room, he saw that Wilber had done the same. The men at the table hadn’t noticed the intrusion yet. They were talking trash and laughing. Boney saw that both Wilber and Abram had their weapons up and aimed at the men at the table. He and Ralph were the same.

  One of the young women saw them, and her eyes grew wide. Boney held a finger to his lips and she nodded slightly. She extracted herself from the man’s lap and said something about going to the bathroom. When she got up, he smacked her rump. As she walked away, the man noticed Boney for the first time. The man froze, his alcohol-addled mind taking time to process what he was seeing. He stood up suddenly, knocking back the chair and falling over in the process.

  The men around the table looked at him and started laughing hysterically. The other woman stood and moved away from the men, suddenly seeing what the downed man had seen. She ran to the back of the house. The men watched her go and then realized they had company.

  “Don’t move, or we’ll open fire,” Boney barked in a loud, clear voice that filled the suddenly silent room.

  The men around the table did nothing, just stared at the old men surrounding them. All of a sudden, a man with a greasy mullet flew to one side, going for a shotgun. Boney wasn’t sure who opened fire first, but the house exploded with gunfire. Cordite stung the nose and smoke filled the air as candles were knocked over. It was over in less than a minute, and all seven men dead on the floor.

  “Told ya not ta move, ya idgets,” Boney grinned, and looked at the other men. They all had startled expressions on their faces, but slow smiles began to spread across their wrinkled faces. They’d done it; they’d killed seven men in less than a minute.

  The sound of women crying came to them, and Boney and Wilber went to the back of the house, their guns ready. Wilber opened the door and Boney entered, his gun and eyes scanning the room. Three girls were down in a corner, huddled together.

  “You gals okay?” Boney asked.

  “Yes sir, is they dead?” a brunette asked.

  “Yeah, they’s dead. You girls want ta go home?” he asked them.

  The girls all started crying harder and nodded. They gathered up their things and came out of the bedroom. Boney’s nose twitched; it stank in there. The girls proceeded him, and he joined them in the living room.

  “Ralph, you an’ Abram look around fir food an’ any supplies that we’ll need. Wilber, you go git the truck. You gals sit down. I need ta ask you some questions,” Boney said.

  The girls held each other and moved as one to the couch. They kept their faces averted from the bodies that lay around the upturned table. Boney sat across from them on the coffee table. The weeping women clung to each other and sniffled and hiccoughed with spent tears.

  “Anyone besides these boys know who you are and where you came from?”

  “No sir. That boy, Darrel, he got me an’ my sister Juney last week, an’ got Darla here two days ago. I know our folks is goin’ crazy. Worried for us. I’m Alisa,” Alisa said, wiping her face on a sleeve.

  “So, other than these boys here, no one else saw you?” he pressed.

  “No sir.”

  “Good. Now, we’ll take you home. Don’t tell no one, ’cept your folks, what happened. We’re trying to free this town, but it’s gonna take some time. Need ta keep things secret. Can you gals keep a secret?” he asked.

  The young women all nodded in unison. He smiled at them. They looked thin and tired. If he could kill these bastards again, he would.

  Abram and Ralph came into the living room holding several large bags and a pillowcase full of food, toilet paper and other odds and ends. Wilber came back in and began to gather the weapons around the house, along with ammo. He walked over to the couch and nudged Boney. Boney looked up and nodded.

  “We’ll give you gals the food and guns. Tell your folks to hide it away in case anyone comes snoopin’ around,” he said kindly. The girls started crying all over again, and the men walked them out to the truck. Boney stayed behind and piled loose debris around the bodies, then poured the alcohol from the bottles over the bodies. Finally, he took one of the candles and lit the papers. The fire spread fast, leaping onto the bodies. He looked around once more, then exited the house. He could hear the crackle of fire follow him out.

  The men got into the bed of the truck while the women got into the cab. Wilber pulled out, leaving the flickering house behind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Alan sat in the parked truck for quite a long while. It was quiet and deserted along this stretch of road. His window was down, and he was leaning out of it, his head lying on his propped-up arm. The sun shone down on his face and he closed his eyes, turning it up to meet the meager heat. The days were start
ing to cool now, and he shivered.

  He wasn’t particularly fond of winter. But they had a full woodshed out back and their garden had done well. He also had some of the provisions from Mr. Anderson’s truck bed. That had been a pure stroke of luck. Being at the right spot at the right moment of his death.

  He sat now, in his truck, where he’d seen Mr. Anderson’s truck come to its final stop. It wasn’t there now, of course; someone had come along to collect it and Mr. Anderson’s body. Alan had come to the last place he’d known Mr. Anderson to have been. The man had been heading west. His truck had been full, so Alan reasoned that if he turned and headed east, perhaps he could find where Anderson had stashed the majority of the food stuffs and supplies. If Alan could find that stash before Yates’s people, then they could parcel it out to the townspeople and the people from the coal mine once they were freed.

  He’d waited for his grandfather to come home last night, unable to sleep. It worried him and made him not a little nervous when his grandfather went out on nightly excursions. He was seeing a whole new side to his grandfather. He’d known the old man had been in the army years ago but had never seen him as anything else other than Pop Pop, an old man. But now, he was seeing the man he used to be, and it was like meeting a new person. That his grandfather had gone out and killed, and in fact enjoyed it, shook Alan up. Boney enjoyed it as well, and both old men took pleasure in it.

  He wondered if it was simply the killing of something that needed killing. That made more sense. He knew his Pop Pop to be crotchety at times, but not mean-spirited. And if anyone needed killing, didn’t these people? Yes, they’d killed his friend and his family, and left a little girl an orphan. The thought once more caused the anger and rage to roil.

  It made him think about, when the time came, if he’d be ready to kill someone. He didn’t doubt he could do it. He didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t shirk from his duty. The KKK had killed many while imprisoning innocent people, putting children and women in the coal mines. Alan was young, but he was no longer naive.

  He was pulled out of his woolgathering by blue jays scolding him from an oak tree at the side of the road. He squinted his eyes and looked up into the tree. Sitting here wasn’t finding the stash, so he started the truck and made a U-turn. If he went back the way Anderson had been coming, perhaps he’d find a place where the stash might be. There had been quite a bit of food and supplies in the back of his truck that day.

  If there was that much, perhaps he should be looking for someplace abandoned and large. Someplace people would ignore. He didn’t think it would be in a house. Most, if not all, of the abandoned homes had been gone through with a fine-toothed comb. No, Alan reasoned; it had to be someplace people wouldn’t bother looking.

  He drove his truck slow, his head on a swivel. Looking left and right, and slowed when he saw an old barn, the roof stove-in and the structure leaning. He pulled his truck off the road and parked. Looked around and listened. Turning off the ignition, he got out. He walked up and down the road, listening and looking. He heard nothing but the buzz of insects and birds.

  Carefully he walked toward the sad structure, noting the high grass. He didn’t see any tread marks from trucks, cars, or humans. He stepped over debris and made his way to the barn. Coming up to the barn, it smelled old, as only old things can. He looked around the perimeter, looking for trampled grass and foot prints. He saw nothing. He poked his head into a gap in the gray wooden boards, careful to avoid nails. He’d had his tetanus shot a couple years ago but didn’t want to test it. He looked around the dim interior and noticed the brilliant streams of light filtering through the broken roof. Dust motes floated within the golden beam.

  The upper story had come down as well. Around the floor, weeds and other grasses grew, but it all seemed undisturbed. He saw abandoned swallows’ nests in the rafters, and a sleeping owl. That brought a smile to his face. He had a fascination with barn owls, having seen Harry Potter plenty of times in the past.

  Pulling his head out, he stood and looked around. Nothing. He shrugged and turned back to the truck but paused to check his pants for ticks before getting back into the truck. He drove on, still searching and looked around. His mind wandered as he drove. After some time, he passed a dog. It was rail thin. He stopped the truck and got out.

  Approaching the dog, he spoke softly. “Hey boy, hey. Where’s your momma? You got a dad?”

  The dog’s tail thumped hesitantly. He read fear and uncertainty in its large, liquid brown eyes. It was a big dog, some kind of mutt. He slowly squatted before the animal, talking nonsense in a soft voice. The dog lowered its large head, but its tail still wagged. Alan put his hand before the dog’s nose and let it sniff. The dog did so, then licked Alan’s knuckles. Alan grinned and scratched the dog behind its ears and under its neck. The dog responded by thumping its large tail harder, stirring up the dirt on the ground.

  “You wanna come home with me, old boy?” Alan asked. The dog seemed to understand, as the tail wagged faster. Alan grinned broadly now. “What should I call you? You ain’t got no collar or tags.” He asked the dog and he now stood, the dog’s head in both hands as he scrubbed at its ears. It groaned in ecstasy and closed its eyes in bliss at the attention.

  Alan laughed and put his forehead to the dog’s forehead and blew gently into the dog’s nose. He sniggered when the dog licked his face and mouth, and he spat a little when the dog’s tongue made it inside his mouth.

  He stood looking down at the dog, who looked back up at him. Going to the truck, he pulled out his lunch bag. Willene had given him and his grandfather some of the venison jerky. Pulling out a couple pieces, he turned back to the dog. To his surprise, the dog was right behind him, his head turning, eyes bright. Alan grinned and carefully handed the dog one of the pieces of jerky. The meat was stiff, and the dog had to chew it instead of just gulping it down. That was good, Alan thought. When the dog had finished, he handed it the other piece.

  He petted the dog’s head, thinking. He’d always wanted a dog but had never had one. This one had the face of a German Shepherd, but not the coloring. He was short haired and had the body – and the whipping tail – of a coonhound, and the whipping tail as well. Maybe he was a mix? It didn’t matter. The dog was his now. He grinned.

  He’d have to catch more rabbits and squirrels, but that was okay. It’d be nice to have a friend; life these days was lonesome sometimes. His school friends were either in the coal mine or farther out of town. And even when they were in school, there weren’t that many kids. The overall population of Beattyville was about thirteen hundred.

  He looked around; he was sure it was less than half of that now. Between starvation and the mayor’s people, the population had plummeted. He shook himself out of those dark thoughts. He had to name this boy, and so he named the dog Homer; they’d been studying Homer’s Odyssey when all this happened. And hadn’t this dog been on an odyssey?

  “Okay, Homer, you wanna come with me, boy?” he asked, and patted the seat in the truck. The dog jumped up into the cab with ease. Alan grinned, thrilled that Homer was in the truck. He got in and put his lunch out of reach of Homer. He too wanted to eat. He started the truck and pulled away. After a while he found an abandoned roadside greasy spoon. It was a shack and looked as though it hadn’t done well when it was open, whenever that had been.

  He got out, but Homer stayed in the truck, watching him. It was a short stop, so when Alan went to the back of the structure, he saw the door had been ripped off. The inside was trashed, and weeds choked the structure; inside leaves and debris were scattered all over the floor. Nothing and no one had been here in months, if not years. He went back to the truck and got in.

  After nearly two hours, he pulled over to the side. His stomach was growling. He pulled his bag closer, gave Homer another piece of jerky, and ate some himself. He drank water from his bottle and poured some into his hand. Homer drank from it, he added more, and let the dog drink it. He hadn’t thought about how t
hirsty the dog was.

  Pulling back out onto the road, he drove to what looked like overgrown fields. Beyond them stood two rusted out corn or grain silos. The roof of one was hanging down the side, the corrugated metal badly rusted. Alan slowed down and saw two posts with a rusted chain strung between them. He also noticed that one post had been bent over and the ground matted down. He backed his truck up and pulled past the chains, to the far left of the leaning post.

  As he drove into the overgrown field, he followed a path; though it was high, he could tell that it had been pushed down recently. It was several weeks since Mr. Anderson had died. His heart began to speed up. Was this where the crafty old man had hidden supplies? He sniggered. If this was it, it was a hell of a good hiding spot. No one would pay this any attention. Why would they? These grain silos looked torn up and rusted out. They held no grain. Anyone passing by wouldn’t pay them any heed.

  He stopped the truck and got out. He stood, feeling exposed, and looked around, his ears attuned. Nothing. The soft susurrus of the wind blew over the tall grass. Crickets chirped, and he heard birds calling in the distance. It was a lonesome place, quiet. He walked carefully toward the structures, Homer following him, and his hand absently petted the large head. He felt the dog’s tongue bathe his hand. He wiped it on his jeans absently. Going around the back, he found a small door, and laughed. It was chained.

  “Now why would someone chain an empty silo?” he asked Homer, who cocked his head from side to side. Turning, Alan went back to the truck, pulled the bench seating forward and looked down behind the seat. There was a tire iron, and what he’d hoped for: bolt cutters. He grabbed those and went back to the chain. Slipping the bolt cutter onto the lock, he cut through it. It wasn’t hard; a cheap lock.

  He pulled the chain from the door and winced; it was noisy. He stopped, looking around. Nothing. He pulled it through the rest of the way more carefully, trying his best to be quiet. Finally, he opened the door, and cringed as it screeched and protested.